Confessions
by Queerasil
Summary: Sherlock goes undercover as a Catholic Priest for a case. While bored and sitting in confessional, he meets a lost army doctor.


John first meets the vicar with the bleeding face after he wanders into church late one night. Fresh out of the emergency room, John stumbles up to the pulpit and collapses down onto his knees, exhausted. There's blood dripping off his hands, and he knows he's getting little droplets of crimson all over the pristine white carpet, but he doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is Harry.

John bows his head and prays. (Well, he tries to, anyway. He can't remember how, exactly. The last time he prayed was over ten-years ago, the night his father disappeared.)

"Dear... um..." If John was blushing, you couldn't tell; his skin is so pale that he looks like he is made of marble. He is embarrassed in front of god, the one person you don't want to look foolish in front of. "I haven't done this in so long, but, um... I don't know how to ask any other way, so here it goes: I need a miracle. For my sister, for me, for my family. I need her to be okay. She's all I have, and -" John's voice drops all previous careful humility. "Damn it - you can't take her away from me. You just can't. You can't take the one good thing away from me. You just can't."

John sighs, crosses himself, and walks out of the church without another word. It's only outside, in the parking lot, where John sees a young man sitting on the church steps, his fingers steepled as if in some deep, meaningful contemplation. The man is striking, with sharp cheekbones and wildly uncontrollable mop of curly head of hair. But by far, the most unusual thing about the man is the cut on his cheek and a spot of blood on his clerical collar.

"Are you alright?" John isn't sure if that's a question he should be asking in his present state, but he does it anyway.

The man doesn't respond. John waits for a few moments before realizing he should get back to the hospital.

"Bye then..." John starts to walk away, hoping the vicar says something. "I'll just be going," John says a little louder as he unlocks his car door and prepares to climb inside.

A deep voice stops John halfway through the car door. "I'm sorry about your sister."

John pauses, unsure of what to do. He glances at his watch - 10:18. He really should be getting back to the hospital.

Cautiously, John looks back at the man, now standing up on the steps, and speaks. "Thanks."

The man nods, and John pulls out of his parking space and drives away.

...

The next two-hours are spent kneeling by Harry's bedside, praying vigorously.

...

Miraculously, she recovers.

...

Soon, she's awake, and John is sitting with her, holding her hand. "I knew you were going to be okay."

Harry scoffs and rolls her eyes, slightly tipsy from the pain medication. "Yeah, you know everything. You saved my life, little brother. I don't know how, but you did."

John can barely contain his smile. 'Yes,' he thinks. 'Yes, I did.'

...

Frankly, Sherlock thinks the seven deadly sins are a little boring.

Lust has never had any appeal for him. He's never coveted (or wanted to covet), another human being. The bodies of women and men don't really hold appeal to him. The minds, however... Well, that's another story.

Sloth was just so much more Mycroft.

Wrath. Anger wasn't productive. On the rare occasion that Sherlock was angry, it was usually justified for a good reason.

Greed, envy, and vanity were vices of lesser beings.

Gluttony was also very Mycroft. Sherlock maintained that the only thing his brother needed to successfully run the government was a box of jelly donuts.

...

Sherlock has been sitting in confessional for hours when something interesting finally happens.

A man enters. Sherlock sighs internally as he braces himself for the incoming laundry list of sins he is about to receive.

Sherlock recognizes the voice at once. "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been..." There is a pause as the man tries to figure it out. "Seventeen years, six months, and... three days since my last confession. Did I do that right?"

"Sure." Sherlock is peering through the holed screen, attempting to look at the man and confirm if he was, indeed, the man he met that night on the church steps. "Keep talking."

"Um... Okay. I just," the man clears his throat, obviously nervous. "I , I -"

"Boring."

"I'm sorry?"

"Why don't you talk about why you're really here."

Now John tries to peer through the holed screen between them. Sadly, he can't see anything but a blur of black and a speck of white. "This is why I'm here."

Sherlock sighs, hoping that the man could provide something more interesting for him to do. "I'll start then, shall I? Generally, you're pretty good at being a good person. That's not to say you don't do your share of bad things, but you try to always do the right thing, which is better than most people. Very good then, onto sins: You've taken the Lord's name in vain at least twice the last week, you never pray, you're depressed, but you don't pity yourself, no. You're angry at yourself - haven't figured out why yet, but bear with me a moment; I've only known you about three-minutes."

John is speechless.

"I'll go on, then. You've thought about killing yourself more than once this week, and you probably would've, if not for your sister getting -"

"Stop. Please."

Sherlock does, because he could hear the weariness in the other man's voice.

"I already know all that. It's..." Sherlock can hear the anger barely contained in the other man's voice. Shakily, he continues, "It's my life. God help me, it's awful, but it's my life. You're absolutely right. Everything you said. Everything... Well, you get the point."

At this point, anything Sherlock might say would only make it worse. Of course, he does anyway. "You didn't come to church to pray for your sister." John is silent. "You came to pray for yourself. Most people do that, you know. It's okay to care about yourself, John. No one likes a martyr."

"I know," John lies. He doesn't really. John Watson has a tiresome habit of considering himself inconsequential, when really, he was monumental in the grand scheme of design. "What do I say next?"

"Act of Contrition."

"Ah." John clicks his tongue. "What's that?"

There is a brief pause, broken only by the laughter of the two men.

...

Sherlock isn't surprised when he sees the blonde man in church again. He is surprised, however, when John walks up to the pulpit with a group of seven-year olds and takes holy communion.

...

Sherlock takes John out to dinner later in celebration. As it turns out, Sherlock's got some confessions of his own to make.


End file.
